


A Party to Remember

by Violetwylde



Series: Ficlet Collection [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Rimming, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 22:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17130203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: Inspired by the Tumblr post: “my boyfriend was telling me about the time he drunkenly ate some guys ass when he was at a party before we started dating, and i said "thats weird, i got my ass ate at a party and i cant remember who the guy was" turns out we went to the same party, and he was the dude that ate my ass. my boyfriend ate my ass 2 years before we started dating.”





	A Party to Remember

Sherlock is in his second year at uni, and it’s proven to be both liberating and a bit isolating. He’s still the same kid who had a “hard time making friends” as his teachers often phrased it, but he’s starting to embrace his eccentricities. Most people give him a wide berth and that suits him fine, a few close friends is all he needs. He’s recently come out and is slowly getting comfortable in his sexuality. Partners aren’t easy to come by, since they’re usually too vapid to maintain his interest long enough to get to sex. Parties are different. At a party just about everyone is looking for an easy hook up. So he takes the opportunity when he doesn’t have anything more pressing on (or when they suspend him from the lab after a particularly exothermic reaction). So far he’s managed a few mutual handjobs and discovered he’s got an affinity for getting on his knees, but tonight he’s looking for something different. Maybe a shag? The idea makes him a bit nervous and he leans heavily into the vodka to bulster up his courage.

John loves parties. He loves the music and shouted conversation and the press of so many bodies that it absolutely must be a fire hazard. He always starts the evening saying that he’ll pace himself, but he’s usually declared the king of keg-stands before the night is through. And between wrapping his fingers around his first solo cup and stumbling home in the violet hours before dawn, he will inevitably find himself in a dark corner with someone. Last Friday was a busty ginger with the hands of an angel when she wanked him, but the mouth of sailor when he fingered her to orgasm. The weekend before that he’d stripped to his pants and jumped in a hot tub, then promptly wrapped his legs around the waist of a lanky computer science major and tried not to be too conspicuous when he pulled out both their cocks to frot in the bubbling water. Who knows what this weekend will bring? But he’s deep into his cups and ready to find out.

When the find each other, it’s like something out of a cheesy ‘80s movie. The man is standing in the kitchen doorway, backlit so that the ends of his blond hair glitter. He’s chatting with some woman, but he obviously isn’t all that interested as his gaze shifts around the room. Their eyes lock and Sherlock’s mouth actually drops open. The man stops talking mid-sentence.

John begs off with the woman he was talking to, her name already forgotten. He takes one step forward and that tall, gorgeous man follows his lead. They move toward one another, snaking through the throng and meeting somewhere in the middle. The crowd has them pressed nearly chest to chest, John doesn’t offer a handshake or a pick up line. _I’m John_ , is all he says. _Sherlock_ , the man replies and Jesus his voice his deep—a low rumble that throbs through John. Pure sex.

John is short in stature, but his confident posture and piercing blue eyes make everyone else in the room shrink and fade away. He offers Sherlock a drink which is ludicrous because they are both already holding drinks, but Sherlock says yes anyway. They make their way to the kitchen and John takes a bottle of scotch out of a cupboard. He suggests they find someplace quiet and Sherlock cannot possibly agree more. Down a hallway they find an empty study, but it’s blocked by a set of glass French doors. Undaunted, Sherlock whisks back toward the party, only to return a moment later with a pair of hair pins. They’re inside within a minute and John is giggling and Sherlock is quite sure he’s never heard anything as beautiful.

They pass the bottle back and forth, swigging and grimacing (well, Sherlock grimaces, John enjoys the bite of peet and the warmth of smoke). They talk about school, where they’re from, their big plans for the future. John says he’s thinking about becoming a GP—a safe option his parents would approve of—and Sherlock calls him an idiot, tells him he should go into trauma medicine as he’d obviously prefer the high stakes. He’s not wrong, and John just blinks and whispers, _you’re brilliant._

It all gets a bit fuzzy after that.

The bottle of scotch is nearly empty, and John’s jeans and pants are bunched at his ankles. He’s got his face buried in plush carpet while Sherlock’s face is buried between his arse cheeks. John’s eaten his fair share of pussy, but he’s never been eaten out himself. And good God, what has he been missing out on? The slide of tongue and sloppy press of lips against his anus is exquisite. He wraps his hand around his aching cock, giving himself a channel to fuck into. He rocks his hips between the hungry mouth at his arse and his own squeezing fist, and goes blind with pleasure.

When Sherlock told John to roll over, when he’d hoisted up John’s hips and bared John’s arse to the air—he really hadn’t known what he was doing. He’d smoothed his hands up John’s thighs until his palms cupped John’s arse, then he’d tugged those firm cheeks apart, and revealed the sweet, furled bud of John’s anus. Now he knows why he did that. He was driven by a hunger he didn’t know he had. And, as it turns out, Sherlock is fucking ravenous. One swipe of his tongue from taint to tailbone, and he was hooked. John tastes like sweat and musk and man. Good God. And the sounds he makes! Low groans and high keens, like he wants more but it’s already too much. And now he’s wanking himself and Sherlock is going 'round the twist with need. Need to hear John come, need to pull himself off, need to never ever let this end.

John comes screaming into the carpet. The high pile absorbing both his voice and his semen. He feels the heat of Sherlock’s mouth disappear, but he’s only disappointed for a moment before warmth returns, this time in the press of thighs against his arse. John feels a hot, hard length slide between his cheeks and a muzzy panic flares up in his mind, but it flickers out when he realizes that Sherlock is rubbing himself off on the curve of his arse. His wet, well-eaten arse. Fuck. Behind him Sherlock is panting like a fucking horse. Wait… Is that the expression? Doesn’t matter. He’s panting and thrusting and John is too spent to do more than whisper words of encouragement. _Yes, Sherlock. Fucking come. Come on me. I want your spunk all over my back. Do it._

Sherlock comes harder than he ever has in his life. Semen arcs and splatters on the skin of John’s back—where his shirt had ridden up—and rolls in milky rivulets down the angle of his spine. He sinks back onto his heels, then reclines all the way to the floor. He stares up at the strange ceiling, desperately clinging to the lingering throbs of pleasure as unconsciousness creeps up on him. He falls asleep to the sound of John already snoring.

John’s buddies scrape him up off the carpet around 3 AM. He doesn’t get to say goodbye or even leave his number. You’d think someone with a name like Sherlock would be easy to find, but nobody seems to know him. He’s like a ghost. A phantom that ate his arse until he passed out from the pleasure.

Sherlock is nudged awake by a foot. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, and when he does he’s sad to find he’s alone. He asks the woman glaring down at him where John is, but she doesn’t know John and is much more concerned with Sherlock pulling his pants up and leaving her house, thank you very much. He meets a lot of John’s over the next two years at uni, but none of them have deep cobalt eyes and an arse like ambosia.

Years go by and John limps into a lab at the hospital where he’d once done his residency. God, those were simpler times. He’d been exuberant, passionate, optimistic. Now his future is bleak and biege, chafing at his broken edges. But then he hears _Afghanistan or Iraq_ in a deep rumble that reminds of something. A hazy memory. Their eyes meet across the room and everything else shrinks and fades away...


End file.
